


The Nurse Who Loved Me

by rummy_cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Nurse Sansa Stark, POV Sansa Stark, Time Travel, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: As he sits dying beneath a tree near Saltpans, Sandor Clegane prays to the Gods for the first time in his life. He prays to see his little bird one last time.The Gods have a funny way of answering prayers.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 47
Kudos: 102





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who's following my other WIPs - FFG, Ascension, US, W&C... please note that NONE of those fics are abandoned. In case you don't know this about me by now, I have about 10 WIPs going at any given point in time, though I only post a couple of them to AO3. But today, I'm in a sharing mood. So I'm posting a few WIPs.
> 
> Before you venture into any of my WIPs, keep in mind the updating schedule may be very unpredictable as, at any given point, 1-3 are my muse, and the others get back-burnered temporarily. Having said that, when I see a lot of reader interest in a certain fic, it stokes my desire to work on that story. :)
> 
> So, point is, proceed with caution: updates may be sporadic. 
> 
> Now, specifically for THIS FIC please keep in mind that I'm not a medical professional but some of this story takes place in a hospital. Healthcare workers, I apologize in advance for anything that is so inaccurate it makes you cringe. 
> 
> As always, ASOIAF characters/story lines in this fic belong to GRRM.

**The Hound**

The wolf bitch left him under a tree to die. Little cunt. After all her yammering about how he was on her list – the list of people she wanted to kill – she had the perfect opportunity to kill him at the tavern, or anytime since then and now. Instead she wrapped his wounds. She must have known it would only prolong his suffering. She helped him get onto his horse – not an easy feat with Sandor’s left thigh nothing but butchered meat.

_They’re all meat, and I’m the butcher._

Sansa Stark would laugh if she saw him now. Now _he_ was the meat, and some worthless cunt was the butcher. It was embarrassing really; Sandor could have taken all three of them without breaking a sweat. But dragging the little wolf all over the Riverlands had sapped him of his strength. Too much riding, not enough food.

_But she wouldn’t really laugh._

No, that was true. The little bird was too polite to laugh in someone’s face. Even her little sister, that claimed to hate him so, couldn’t laugh when she saw he was nothing but a walking corpse.

When he couldn’t ride anymore, she helped him to sit under a tree. He’d rather she gave him a swift death, like he asked for. But she didn’t. The girl didn’t mind killing – rather enjoyed it, so far as he could tell. So it was _him_ she didn’t want to kill. The only question now was whether that was mercy or cruelty on her part. It felt like cruelty to him, but her eyes had a certain sadness to them. A sadness he’d never seen in her Stark grey eyes, but that he’d seen often in her sister’s Tully blues.

Gods, what he wouldn’t give to see those blue eyes one last time. He summoned them easily in his waking dreams, but to see the real eyes and the real girl they belonged to one last time? He could die happy. Perhaps, since he wouldn’t live long enough to be ashamed, he’d tell her everything. All the things he’d never told anyone. All the things he hid even from himself until now; as the last of life was draining from his veins, he had no capacity for deception.

_I should have been kinder to you._

_I should have helped you – done more to protect you from Joffrey and his guards._

_I shouldn’t have come to you drunk and broken. I should have been strong for you. Offered you a **real**_ _escape, not some ill-formed plan to simply ride away from the capital in the midst of battle._

_I should have told you that you were better than all of them. Every last one of them._

_I shouldn’t have mocked you for your naivety. I should have told you what I really thought – that you were the most refreshing person I ever met._

_I should have sworn myself to you. The only vow I’d ever make._

_I should have told you… that I don’t know how to love, but that if I did, I’d love you._

It was a struggle just to keep his eyes open now, but his dying brain ordered them open. In his fevered madness, he thought that if there was any chance to see Sansa Stark again, he couldn’t miss it. Perhaps she’d just come strolling right past him. He didn’t know where she went after fleeing the capital during Joffrey’s wedding. No one knew, except Sansa and whoever helped her get out. Maybe she was close. Maybe she was _right here._

His senses were failing. It wouldn’t be long now. Sandor Clegane had never been one to pray, and certainly not one to beg. But he did both now.

“Gods… you damned bastards… if you feel any obligation to me… for all the shit you’ve put me through… if you owe me any mercy… deliver it by letting me see her… just one more time…”

He kept his eyes open for as long as he could, but the Gods didn’t answer.

They never had.


	2. Not a sir

**Sansa**

She was running on fumes and finally – _finally_ – might get to leave after sixteen straight hours in the E.R.

Her 12-hour shift had been almost over on a surprisingly quiet Monday night during flu season. She was about to gather her belongings and head home when they got a call that five traumas were on their way from a multi-vehicle accident on the expressway.

Now, four hours later, the patients were all stabilized or in O.R., except for one. One that didn’t make it. Sansa hadn’t been attending him directly, but it still stung, and cast a somber mood over the E.R. that would last until the next crisis came in. Some of her colleagues dealt with losing a patient by acting like it simply rolled off their shoulders. People die every day, in every city in the entire world, after all. Others resorted to humor. Sansa didn’t fault the way any person chose to deal with death, but personally she couldn’t pretend it didn’t bother her. Death had always upset her. She could still remember when her pet husky, Lady, died when Sansa was in senior year of high school. Lady was only eight but had a bum liver. Sansa cried for days, which wasn’t too unusual, she thought, but it took many more months before she “got over it” – before she could talk about Lady without tearing up.

Not to compare a dog’s life to a human’s, but it demonstrated to Sansa that she wasn’t one who could easily recover from loss – whether losing a beloved pet or a stranger who was entrusted to her care.

Sansa pushed it out of her mind as best she could and hastened to gather her belongings before she got stuck in another crisis. It was selfish to think that way, perhaps, but her feet were killing her, and her eyelids were heavy.

She said goodbye to the people on day shift. She was close with only two of them – Greg and Kristin. Her night shift besties, Paul and Jen, had left just a few minutes before Sansa.

She liked nightshift, and was happy with her current schedule – Monday, Thursday, and Friday from 8 PM to 8 AM. 8 PM – 2 AM was the busiest period, particularly on a Friday, so she got to dive right into action when her shift started, then relax for the second half. Of course, there were exceptions. People waking up in the morning feeling ill might come to the hospital rather than waiting for their primary physician’s office to open up. There were morning commute accidents, most common between 6:30-8:00 AM. They had a nice way of showing up just as Sansa was trying to walk out the door – as had happened this morning.

But she was finally going home and knew she wouldn’t even brush her teeth before collapsing into bed and passing out for the next ten hours. After giving Stranger some TLC, of course. Stranger was the black cat that kept showing up at the door of her condo a month ago. It became a habit for her to come home and find him sitting on her doormat. She’d greet him with the same, _“Howdy, Stranger,”_ each time. After her early attempts to shoo him away didn’t work, she checked with the neighbors, but no one claimed him. Since she’d always liked pets but couldn’t in good conscience get a dog when she was gone for 12-hour periods three times a week, and sometimes even longer, she decided to take the cat in. Her friend Mya was a vet tech and Sansa entrusted him to her care for a few days. He was dewormed, given vaccines, had bloodwork done, and – of course – got his balls snipped. Mya delivered Stranger back hale and healthy and recovered from the minor procedure, and Sansa handed over a check for $700. She only wished the little bugger could appreciate it.

Since then he’d been Sansa’s little buddy. He was dog-like in that he was always happy to see her, never ran and hid when a deliveryman rang the bell, and enjoyed chasing after felt balls. But unlike a dog, he didn’t need to be walked or let out multiple times a day, and gladly paced himself with the four days’ supply of food and water that Sansa made sure was always available to him, lest she end up having to pull a double and sleep on a cot at the hospital.

Sansa dug through her backpack to find her sunglasses. It was high noon, and the sun was reflecting off the snow that had fallen yesterday. Just as she found them, she heard a groan. She jerked her head trying to follow the sound.

Another groan and she pinpointed the sound to the garden on the side of the entrance. She ran over and gasped when she saw a man lying buck naked on the snowy ground, with multiple visible lacerations on his chest and face and – worst of all – a long and deep gash on his left thigh.

“Sir?!” she called out as she knelt in the snow, feeling for his pulse. It was weak, and his skin was hot to the touch.

“Not… sir,” he mumbled. He must be delirious from blood loss and fever already, but that was just the beginning of the alarming things she noticed in those few seconds she hovered over him taking his pulse. Half of his face bore terrible scarring that she had only ever seen on burn victims. Even more troubling was the odor coming off of him. It was the smell of infected flesh, which meant he had had these grievous wounds for at least a couple days.

Sansa spun her head around, looking for anyone that could help. She noticed a man walking toward the entrance. Her red hair must have caught his eye for he looked her way then widened his eyes as he saw what – or who – she was leaning over.

“Sir, please run and tell the front desk we need a gurney out here STAT and to send for the surgeon on call!”

The young man nodded rapidly and ran inside to do her bidding.

“Not…a… sir,” her mysterious patient repeated. She wasn’t sure if he was aware of his surroundings but keeping him conscious was critical.

“Sir, what is your name?”

“Not… sir… dog,” he slurred.

“Dog? What? Sir, can you open your eyes? Do you know where you are? What is your name?”

Sansa heard the doors sliding open at the same moment he opened his eyes, only about halfway. His eyes rolled all around before focusing on her face and widening. “Little bird,” he whispered. His right hand tried to reach for her face but dropped back to the ground. “Take care… little bird.” His eyes closed and he was out cold when four people, including Sansa, lifted him onto the gurney. He was a large man, tall and broad shouldered, with the build of someone muscular but having recently lost weight. Sansa was familiar with this look – in nursing school she’d delivered post-op care to professional athletes that had had to pause their training due to an injury, such as a broken leg or torn ACL. It was amazing how quickly muscle withered away on people who didn’t have a healthy store of fat.

The man was rushed directly to surgery and that wasn’t Sansa’s domain. She didn’t even have anything to report to whoever the attendings would be. She didn’t know his name, his age, where he came from, what happened to him, or anything else that might help them. They would immediately notice the same things she had – that his wounds were infected. They would no doubt administer a massive dose of antibiotics with the same urgency that they would give him a blood transfusion. And they wouldn’t simply suture his wounds – they’d cleanse and probably have to cut away some of the tissue.

Sansa felt so disheartened. The poor man had obviously suffered something terrible and somehow wasn’t in a position to get himself to help. What had transpired in these past few days that prevented him from seeking medical attention? And how did he get such wounds to begin with? Sansa was no forensics expert, but she’d seen enough knife wounds to know that’s what the man had. And who would be crazy enough to attack such a large man with a knife rather than a gun? And why was he seemingly on the way to becoming emaciated? Had he been held against his will and tortured? The notion was terrifying, and Sansa felt sick.

She knew someone at the desk would alert the police and an investigation would be opened. Until the man was conscious, he was a victim of a crime and a John Doe. Sansa imagined that, with his facial scars, the police would be able to quickly identify him by releasing a photo or sketch of his face to the media. They might even identify him before he awoke to give his name.

Sansa prayed that whatever family he had would be here soon to see him through what would be very painful days and weeks to come. She imagined some poor young woman who’d been worried sick about her husband for days rushing to the E.R. after seeing his face on TV. Sansa prayed for that young woman who she didn’t know and might not even exist. But she had a feeling she did exist. The way the man seemed to look at her and reach for her face – in his disorientation he must have confused her for his wife or girlfriend.

Sansa headed back toward her car even though curiosity made her want to stick around and learn everything she could about the mysterious patient. Perhaps she’d call Greg or Kristin later to see what had been found out about him. So far all she knew was that he didn’t like being called ‘Sir’, and… wait, what else did he say? Something about a dog? And a bird… a _little_ bird.

“Oh no!” Sansa gasped though she was alone in her car. The man must have pets – a dog and a bird. Had they been neglected for days or even weeks at this point? _The poor things!_ Sansa felt sick thinking about what would happen to Stranger if Sansa was injured and no one thought to check on her cat. Since only Mya knew about her cat, and she and Mya didn’t speak as frequently as they used to, it was plausible that poor Stranger would be alone for weeks – long after his food and water ran out.

Sansa could only hope the police would identify the man quickly and as part of their investigation would send someone to his home.

Sansa finally shook her head and pulled out of her parking spot. She needed sleep – badly. Right now she was worrying about a man she didn’t know and a woman, dog, and bird that might not even exist. Sleep would do her good, and tomorrow she’d check in with her friends for an update. By then they’d know _something_ about the man and have an update on his prognosis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have named this fic after a beautiful song by A Perfect Circle. Listen to it, people!! Note: the song was originally done by a band called Failure, but I prefer the APC version (sorry, Failure dudes, if you ever read this!)   
> FYI, like Fiona Apple's Tidal, I consider APC's Thirteenth Step a near-perfect album. Ry Cooder's Jazz is another one. Why am I telling you guys this?
> 
> Anywhoo, "The Nurse Who Loved Me" song is probably a metaphor for being high, but I like to take the lyrics more literally and think it's written from the POV of a hospital patient, probably in and out of consciousness (dealing with drug withdrawal? recovering from injury?) who falls in love with the nurse who attends him.


	3. Went from a princess to a nurse, girl?

“What does _that_ mean?”

Sansa could practically hear Greg shrug through the phone, _“It means, they still haven’t identified him. It’s only been a day, San.”_

“Well, yeah, but I mean… his height, his scars… long dark hair. He’s quite distinctive looking.”

_“Well maybe whoever knows him hasn’t seen the news yet. It’ll take time for word to spread, but they’ll figure out who he is eventually.”_

“Ugh! I just wish they’d hurry up.”

_“Why does it matter so much to you?”_

Sansa sighed, knowing she was about to sound a little bit crazy, but trusting Greg not to judge her, “I think he might have pets. He said the word ‘dog’ and then asked me to take care of his little bird. At least, I think that’s what he meant.”

_“Ohhhh!”_

“I know!”

_“Sorry, San, I wish I could tell you more. They said he doesn’t even have tattoos that might help identify him, so they’re pretty much relying on the public until he wakes up…”_

“Well… can’t they run his DNA?”

Greg chuckled, _“San, relax about all this. You make it sound like he’s never going to wake up! I’m sure they’ll be tapering him off the sedatives soon. Maybe you can sneak up to the ICU during your shift Thursday night and ask the guy his name yourself!”_

“I know… I guess it’s just because I was worried about his pets. But there’s nothing I can do, obviously.”

_“Why don’t you enjoy your day off, huh?”_

“Well, I _am_ overdue in organizing my closet.”

There was a long pause, _“Yeah… that’s exactly what I had in mind.”_

…

Late Wednesday night Sansa was yanked from sleep when her phone rang. It shocked her enough to flinch, which shocked Stranger enough to jump three feet in the air off of her legs, which he’d been sleeping on.

An unfamiliar number showed on her cell phone’s caller ID. Sansa answered suspiciously, “Hello?”

_“Ms. Sansa Stark please.”_

“This is she.”

_“Ms. Stark, this is Detective Pike with Harrenhal PD…”_

Sansa sat up abruptly, knowing this must be related to the man at the hospital.

_“… I was told that you were the person who found an unconscious man outside of Harrenhal General on Tuesday afternoon …”_

“Yes, although he wasn’t unconscious at the time.”

_“Ahh, that explains it. Well, Ms. Stark, the reason I’m calling is because this man awoke this evening, as expected. However, he was in an extremely agitated state and had to be subdued and sedated again. But while he was awake, he repeatedly asked for you, so I was hoping you would be willing to be present tomorrow, along with myself and another officer, when he is expected to wake up again.”_

“Umm… of course… but why would he ask for me?”

_“I’m assuming it’s because you’re the last person he saw.”_

“Truthfully I did not think he was aware of my presence, or that he thought I was someone else, if anything.”

_“Well, apparently he was lucid enough to hear your name.”_

“What? I didn’t tell him my name.”

_“Well then he saw your ID badge—”_

“I had already taken it off, I’m sure of it. I was leaving for the day, you see.”

_“Ms. Stark, with respect, in moments like that when adrenaline is pumping, it’s easy to forget things. Perhaps you did tell him your name. Regardless of how he knows you, he repeatedly asked for you, so I’m hoping your presence may calm him, somewhat. I assure you that you’ll be safe. He has been restrained and will remain so until he proves not to be a threat to himself or others.”_

“I understand. What time shall I come in?”

_“Does 9 AM work for you?”_

“Certainly, detective. I’ll meet you at Mr.—wait, what name did he give?”

_“He didn’t give a name, Ms. Stark. He didn’t give us any helpful information. He was quite agitated, as I said. But it’s ICU room 308.”_

“Of course. Well, I’ll see you there.”

_“Thank you, Ms. Stark. Goodnight.”_

The officer hung up before she could reply.

Sansa understood that adrenaline can make a person misremember the way events occurred, but she was _certain_ that she had not told the man her name. She was focused on learning what she could about _him._ And she was even more certain that she hadn’t been wearing her ID badge. She would have remembered taking it off the scrubs she put in the wash yesterday.

Was it possible the man knew her from _before_ Tuesday? Perhaps he had been to the ER in the past – for himself or with a friend or family member. Perhaps he saw her then and recalled her name.

But that seemed highly improbable. There was no way she could see a man as distinctive as him and _not_ remember it. Even working in the medical field, it was extremely rare to meet someone with such severe scarring on his or her face. At minimum, she would have had some vague sense that the man was familiar, even if she couldn’t place him to a specific date or incident.

Deciding she’d find out soon enough from the horse’s own mouth, she put it out of her mind, set her phone’s alarm for 7:30 AM, and went to sleep.

…

Though she had prepared herself for the man to be agitated, this went beyond anything she could have expected.

The man had awoken shortly before Sansa arrived, Detective Pike told her. Though he was on a morphine drip for pain management, he was far from relaxed.

As soon as she walked into his room, he stopped struggling against the restraints that bound him to the hospital bed, “Sansa!” he cried out. The sound of his voice, strangled with pain, tore at her heart.

She wasn’t sure what to say, but knew it was important to help the police determine his identity, “Hello, Mister…?”

He groaned in frustration, “It’s me, Sandor. Do I look so bloody different after a few months on the road? Where in the blood hells am I? What is going on?!”

“Sandor, you’re at Harrenhal General.”

“Harrenhal?! How in bloody hells did I get here? And what is going on? What are all these strange things?” his eyes darted all around the room. “And what are these things sticking out of me?” he jutted his chin toward the IVs in his arm.

Sansa turned to look at Detective Pike, but all he offered was a very unhelpful shrug.

“Well, uh, Sandor, someone left you out front. You had multiple, serious injuries. Do you remember what happened to you? Before you got here, I mean.”

The man grumbled, seemingly annoyed to answer her questions, “There was a fight at the inn. I was with your sister and—”

“You were with Arya?! How?! Where is she? Did the people who hurt you hurt her?” Sansa began to panic. Arya was living in White Harbor with her boyfriend. She shouldn’t be anywhere near Harrenhal.

The man huffed, “She’s fine, girl. Barely a scratch. She left me for dead, under a tree.”

“What? Why were you with her?!”

“We were on our way back from the gates of the moon. We tried getting to your family at the twins, but we were too late, so we tried for your aunt in the Vale, but we were too late for that, too.”

“The gates of the moon? The twins? My aunt in the Vale? We have no aunt in the Vale. And how were you with Arya in the first place?! No – forget that; where is Arya _now?”_ Sansa was leaning over the end of the bed, imploring the man with her eyes to give her the truth.

“I don’t know,” he ground out through gritted teeth, “I told you she left me for dead. Now where the fuck am I? Harrenhal is a ruin. And why are you dressed that way?”

Sansa began realizing the man was delusional, but obviously he knew her sister, and right now that was all she could care about. She pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and dialed Arya’s number.

_“Hello?”_

“Thank God! Are you alright?! Where are you?!”

_“Umm… at work? What’s wrong?”_

“Are you hurt?”

_“Nooo… San, what’s going on?”_

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as the officers in the room and the man in the bed stared at her.

Knowing that her sister was safe, Sansa’s brain could function properly again. She cast a glance at the officers and stepped into the hallway, speaking into the phone in a low voice, “Were you with a man named Sandor recently?”

_“No… I don’t know any Sandor… what is this about?”_

“Were you with any man who… well, a very tall man, with long dark hair and facial scars?”

_“Umm… Sansa, did you just wake up? Ugh, did you take those sleep supplements again? Remember the weird dreams they gave you? All natural my ass…”_

Sansa shook her head, “No, I… it’s about a guy that came into the hospital and… I don’t know… just, stay at work, alright? Don’t go anywhere without Mike.”

_“San, is something wrong? Is someone trying to hurt me? Wait – did someone threaten you? What’s his name, I’ll kick his ass so hard his grandmother will feel it.”_

Sansa groaned into the phone, “No, no one threatened me. Just… be careful. Call the police if anything out of the ordinary happens, alright? _Anything_.”

_“Whatever, just call me later.”_

Sansa ended the call and walked back into the room. She nodded at the officers and hoped it communicated that everything was okay with her sister, and that this man had _not_ been in Arya’s company anytime recently.

“What was that thing?” Sandor asked, eying the phone in her hand suspiciously.

Sansa looked at the officers who seemed just as confused as she was.

She held up her phone, “This is a cellphone. Have you never seen one?”

He shook his head and ground his jaw, “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on? Is this some type of torture chamber?”

“Sandor,” Detective Pike spoke, “Can you tell us your last name?”

“My _last_ name? I’m the bloody hound. Sandor Clegane.”

“Right, Mr. Clegane. Can you tell us about the men who attacked you at the… inn?”

Sandor rolled his eyes in obvious frustration, “Polliver, that cunt. And the one they call the tickler. And some pockmarked squire. _Friends_ of Gregor.”

“Gregor? Greg _Royce_?” Sansa peeped up, wondering if somehow this delusional man could be involving her work friend in his odd tale just as he was involving Sansa and Arya.

The man huffed loudly, “No, I mean Gregor _Clegane_. My _brother_. Little bird, have you gone daft?”

_Why is he calling me a little bird?_

“Mr. Clegane, where can we find your brother?”

“How the fuck should I know? I keep a wide berth of that sick fucker. You want to find him? Just follow the trail of maimed bodies.”

Detective Pike looked like he was about to ask another question, but Sansa beat him to it, “Sandor – how do you know me? How do you know my sister?”

The man’s brow furrowed, “What do you mean _how do I know you_? I’ve known you for years, girl. Since King Robert traveled to Winterfell. Why are you asking me these questions? I’m the one chained to this bed, yet you’re the ones acting mad!” He pulled against his restraints again, to no avail.

“King Robert?” Pike asked, “Mr. Clegane, what year do you think it is?”

“What year? It’s the bloody year 300.” Sandor shook his head, grumbling something that might have been _‘they think I’m mad’_ under his breath.

Sansa tried to keep her jaw from falling. This poor man went through such a trauma that he’d lost his mind. Sansa could only pray that as his body healed, he would regain his senses. And his sanity.

Sansa knew how important it was to calm this man down and gain his trust. The police and doctors would need his cooperation. She walked carefully to stand at his bedside and tentatively took his left hand, which was bound to the bed railing using neoprene cuffs, just like the right one. Only then did she notice he had more burn scars on his left arm, though they appeared much fresher than the ones on his face. Part of the arm was bandaged – probably where the burns had yet to heal.

“Sandor, please listen to me. You’ve been badly wounded, and I believe as a result you’ve suffered some… emotional trauma. Clearly in the past few days someone attacked you with a knife. And sometime in the past months your arm was burned. And long before then, your face. Can you tell—”

“What the buggering hells is wrong with you, girl? You know damned well when and how my face got burned – you’re the only one I ever told! As for my arm, that was Beric Dondarrion, that fire-worshipping cunt. All because that little wolf bitch sister of yours told them about how I killed the butcher’s boy… surely you haven’t forgotten that, when you lost your beloved _pet_ , Lady.”

“Lady?! How do you know about Lady?”

“I was there, girl, remember?” His eyes darted to the men in the room before narrowing. He lowered his voice, “Who are these men, little bird? Have they harmed you? Threatened you so you’ll go along with whatever this madness is?”

Sansa shook her head, “These are police officers here to investigate your case.”

“My _case_? _Poh-lease officers?_ What has happened to you, girl? You’re speaking so strangely. You even look different, and not just your clothes. You look… older.”

Sansa looked toward the officers. Pike seemed to be writing down everything that was being said.

Sansa turned back toward the patient, “Sandor, please humor me, and tell me who you think I am.”

He rolled his eyes, “You’re Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Or is it Sansa _Lannister_ now? Are you still married to the imp? Either way, you’re the daughter of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully. Satisfied now?”

Sansa felt her eyes go wide. Her mother was indeed a Tully, but Susan Tully, born in Riverrun. Her father was James Stark, born in the town of Winterfell. It seemed that in his delusional state, this man had created some fantastical story, yet parts of it were true. She _was_ Sansa Stark, born of a Tully mother and Stark father. She _was_ from Winterfell. She _did_ once have a pet dog named Lady. And she _did_ have a sister named Arya. But she’d never married a man named Lannister. Nor had she ever met a _King Robert._ Nor had she ever met this man, Sandor Clegane, even though he clearly knew many details about her.

Just then the attending physician walked in, scowling at everyone in turn, “You were not supposed to question my patient without my being present.” The doctor, whose ID badge showed he was a George Murphy, turned to face Sandor, “How are you feeling today, sir?”

“Not a bloody sir… and I’d be feeling better if I weren’t tied to a fucking bed surrounded by a bunch of noisy things and bright things and a bunch of people who are ranting and raving. They’re the ones should be tied down, not me. So if you’re here to kill me, get the fuck on with it! Otherwise, release me!”

Dr. Murphy glared at everyone. Detective Pike cleared his throat, “Doctor, your patient is Sandor Clegane. Or so he claims.”

“ _So he claims_ ,” Sandor parroted, “Who in their right mind would _claim_ to be Sandor Clegane, the bloody hound, the turncloak? Am I looking at the only people in all of Westeros who don’t know the Lannister Hound? My reputation does tend to precede me.”

Pike ignored him, “He also claims it is the year 300.”

Sandor snorted, “It _is_ the bloody year 300, unless I’ve been comatose for many moons, in which case it’s the year 301.”

“Sandor, it—”

“Please, nurse Stark,” Dr. Murphy interrupted her with a shake of his head and eyes widened in warning.

“ _Nurse_ Stark?” Sandor turned to face her, “Went from a princess to a nurse, girl? Thought maybe you’d take to the Silent Sisters after fleeing the Red Keep, but not a bloody nurse.”

“I think that’s enough visitation for today. Mr. Clegane needs to rest, and I need to see to my patient. If you would please,” Dr. Murphy gestured toward the door.

The officers filed out but when Sansa turned to leave Sandor clasped her hand, “Where are you going, little bird?”

“The doctor needs to see to your wounds, Sandor.”

Fear replaced anger in the man’s eyes, “Don’t leave me here, little bird. I know I left you during the battle, I was a bloody craven, but I swear I’ll never leave your side again. Please don’t leave! Stay here and tell me what the fuck is going on!”

Sansa couldn’t help the tears that came to her eyes. This man was _suffering_. Though he would only receive excellent care here, he clearly didn’t understand that. He thought he knew Sansa – her and no one else – and that she was abandoning him.

“Sandor, I…” she looked up at Dr. Murphy, then back to Sandor, “If Dr. Murphy permits me to stay, will you let him check your wounds? They were infected when you were brought in and must be closely monitored.”

“I don’t need some cunt prodding at me…”

“It’s for your own good. Please, I promise that he is only here to help you. You said yourself you were left for dead, but now you are on the mend. Doesn’t that prove that these people have been caring for you? If they meant to do you harm, why treat your wounds, hmm?”

Sandor reluctantly nodded, “You stay, little bird, and I’ll let the maester prod me.”

Sansa looked to Dr. Murphy. He appeared contemplative, then nodded.

Sansa pulled a chair to Sandor’s right side, the side which had far less damage. She held the strange man’s hand and eyes as Dr. Murphy removed bandages and inspected the wounds. Though curious, Sansa did not avert her eyes. Sandor seemed calmed by her presence, so she focused only on him.

He began speaking in a low voice, tinged with sadness or perhaps regret, “Last time I saw you it was you on your back, and me leaning over you. But it was you comforting me then, all the same. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, little bird, but I know that I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come to you like that – a drunk, angry dog. I should have come to you the right way and gotten you out, so you’d never be forced to lay with the imp, to wear his cloak.”

His words made no sense to her, but she didn’t want to upset him by making it obvious. She just stroked his hand, “It’s alright, Sandor. I forgive you.”

He closed his eyes then, and took a deep, shuddering breath before speaking again, “When I get out of here, I’ll help you look for your sister. She may have gone to Braavos. Was always blabbering about it.”

Sansa nodded even as tears once again filled her lashes, “Sounds good.”

Sandor opened his eyes, “Don’t cry, little bird. We’ll find her. She’s tougher than you and me, both.”

Sansa smiled. Clearly the _Arya_ this man thought he knew wasn’t the same one Sansa knew, but he was right about that one. Arya had always been the tough one, at times bordering on callous. Sansa had been the sensitive one. Arya worked at her boyfriend Mike’s shop, building custom motorcycles. She fit in with tough, burly guys that worked and shopped there. They respected her. She was petite but fierce, and some of them learned that the hard way.

“She is,” Sansa agreed.

Dr. Murphy cleared his throat, “Mr. Clegane, the lacerations on your torso and head are healing well now that we’ve treated you for infection. Unfortunately, the laceration on your thigh is troublesome. You’ve sustained not just flesh damage but also muscle damage. I’m afraid you’ll be walking with crutches or a cane for some time, and you may need physical therapy to regain the strength and range of motion in that leg. The good news, though, is that you show no signs of sepsis. As long as the wounds stay clean, and you do nothing to aggravate the injuries, everything should heal quite well. Now, Mr. Clegane, can you tell me about the burn on your arm? How long ago did you sustain that injury, and how?”

Sandor seemed confused by all the doctor had said, but focused on the man’s question, “Might be two moons ago now. Fucking cunt lit his sword aflame, and when he struck my shield the whole thing was engulfed. Burned right through my tunic while I was trying to cut the damned thing off.”

Dr. Murphy glanced briefly at Sansa, but he seemed to understand, like she did, that now wasn’t the time to tell Sandor that everything he seemed to remember was a figment of his imagination.

“Right, well, you’re very lucky it didn’t… _fester._ ”

Sandor nodded, “I rinsed it when I could, and kept it wrapped to keep dirt out.”

While the man was clearly having a mental break of some sort, Sansa couldn’t help but admire his ingenuity. He had detailed answers for everything, and never hesitated as if concocting lies. Clearly, he believed everything he said.

“Right,” Dr. Murphy nodded. He took a moment to adjust the morphine drip. Sansa knew that meant Sandor would be falling asleep within minutes.

“Sandor,” she spoke gently, “I need to step into the hallway to speak with Dr. Murphy. And you must rest. The more you sleep, the faster you will heal.”

“Just into the hallway?” he asked, the panic returning to his voice and eyes.

“Well, yes. I promise I will stay until you fall asleep. But I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

He shook his head, “Little bird, if they mean me no harm, then why am I bound?”

“Oh, that’s… that’s standard. It’s because of your wounds. They don’t want you moving around too much or else you might rip open the sutures. It’s for your own good, I promise.”

Sandor nodded though looked unconvinced, “You’ll come back?”

She smiled, “I will. Tomorrow.”

His eyelids began to droop, but he was obviously fighting to stay awake, “Little bird, are you safe here?”

Sansa turned to Dr. Murphy and implored him with her eyes to give them some privacy. He pursed his lips but stepped out.

She leaned closer, “Sandor, we’re alone now, see? So I would tell you if I weren’t safe. I’d also remove your restraints if I needed… if I needed you to protect me.”

Sandor nodded and his eyes slowly drifted shut.

Now that it was time to leave, she suddenly didn’t want to. Nonetheless, she stroked his large, scarred hand one more time, then forced herself out of her chair.

Dr. Murphy was waiting just outside the room. Several feet away the officers were conversing, but Sansa couldn’t make out their words.

“Dr. Murphy… what’s your take on this?”

The man lifted his eyebrows, “I’m no psychiatrist, but I’d say the traumas he’s endured led him to create this… persona, I guess you could call it.”

“Like split personality disorder?”

Dr. Murphy nodded, “Again, I’m just guessing. I’m going to refer for a psych eval, but I want to see that leg wound get _a lot_ better before transferring him to psych. But perhaps the psychiatrist that attends him will prescribe something.”

“What, like an antipsychotic?”

“Probably. Though they may be disinclined to prescribe anything of that sort if they agree with me that it was the physical trauma that this hallucination, or whatever it is, is predicated upon.”

Sansa nodded. She was no doctor, but she didn’t like the idea of anyone being given antipsychotic meds if time may be all that was needed.

Dr. Murphy offered a sympathetic smile then moved on to the next room to continue his rounds. Sansa took the chance to speak to the nurses at the station, explaining that if Sandor awoke and was agitated, they should call her, and reassure him that she would be returning. Then she headed over to Detective Pike. The man nodded to let her know it was okay to join the small circle of officers he was speaking to.

“Have you been able to locate his next of kin, detective?”

“No such luck. Can’t even locate _him._ There are no Sandor Cleganes _or_ Gregor Cleganes in the area. No DMV records, arrest records, nothing in the residential directories… No one even matching the last name only.”

“Perhaps he lives in another jurisdiction?”

Pike nodded, “We have people checking on that as we speak. But I have a feeling they won’t find anything.”

“Why is that?”

“Because what we _have_ found is a Westipedia listing for a Sandor Clegane born in 271 AC, died in the year 300.”

“What?!”

“Apparently he was some kind of knight. Along with his elder brother, Gregor Clegane.”

“So… that means he’s…”

“Crazy,” Pike nodded casually. “Probably some kind of history buff, so when he had a psychotic break, he thought he was some knight of old.”

Realization dawned on Sansa, and she smacked her forehead, “Oh my God, how stupid of me! Yes! This makes sense now! My sister and I were named after some ancient ancestors on my dad’s side! There were once a Queen Sansa and Princess Arya when the North was an independent kingdom. They were born to a Tully and a Stark – since my mom is a Tully and my dad is a Stark, they named me and my sister after those ancestors.”

“Ah, that does make sense. When this man heard or saw your name, he filled in the details from the _real_ Sandor Clegane’s interactions with these Stark sisters.”

Sansa didn’t remind the detective that she still didn’t know _how_ this man knew her name. Overall, though, she was relieved that this person, who was clearly insane and possibly dangerous, didn’t actually know _present day_ Sansa and Arya Stark. She had begun wondering if he was some stalker, and it frightened her even as she felt instinctively compassionate for the man.

As if knowing she had a bubble that needed to be burst, Pike cleared his throat, “Ms. Stark… I hope you realize that doesn’t mean you should not exert the utmost caution in dealing with this man. I understand as a medical professional you feel some responsibility to help in his healing – even if that means by playing along with his delusions – but I would caution you against sharing any personal details. Your address, the names of your friends and family… anything he could later use to track you down, assuming he never figures out that this is a hospital and you work here. The man could prove to have something of an… obsession with you.”

Sansa nodded, “I understand, Detective. Though between you and I, I doubt he’ll be released anytime soon. More likely he’ll be transferred to the psychiatric ward until this psychosis either proves to be a temporary episode, or he is being successfully treated for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just need to say it's REALLY hard writing the reaction of someone thrust 800 years forward in time. Literally everything would look foreign. However, I think the brain would adjust to it in some way to allow the person to focus on the important stuff like where am I and why am I here? Otherwise Sandor would just be fixated on minutiae like why am I in a dress? Why does this bed move up and down. Why are the walls so white? What is that bright thing in the ceiling? What is that black thing with all the weird looking letters and numbers on it?   
> Get my point? I tried to think of how I'd feel if I woke up in the future tomorrow with holographic bartenders and hover cars and other advanced technology I cannot even fathom... After the initial shock I have to think my focus would be on the big questions like Where/Why/How rather than on understanding all the "stuff" around me.
> 
> Having said that, Sandor WILL have to learn about all that "stuff" at some point. And that will be fun.


	4. A whole roast chicken

After her shift ended Friday morning, Sansa set out to visit Sandor. When she arrived at his room, she found an older gentleman sitting in a chair at Sandor’s bedside. Sandor appeared frustrated, but she hadn’t heard any yelling upon her approach, so she took that as a good sign.

She tapped lightly on the doorframe and the man turned around and stood. Sansa recognized his face; she’d seen him around the hospital before.

He approached Sansa with peppy steps, “Ah! You must be the lovely Lady Sansa I have been hearing so much about.” He extended his hand, “I know we’ve seen each other around, but I’m not sure we’ve ever made proper introductions. I’m Dr. Elderman, but you can call me Ray.” He was smiling at her warmly, as if he was genuinely happy to make her acquaintance.

“Hi, Doctor… Ray.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Finally, girl. Can you tell his _Ray_ that I’m telling the truth?”

Ray turned, “I never said you were lying, Sandor.”

“Well then you _implied_ it… _Ray.”_ Sandor spoke the man’s name like a curse.

“Um, should I come back later?”

“No, no, my dear. Please, take a seat.”

Sansa took the chair Ray pulled over. She next to him on Sandor’s right. Ray continued in a light tone, “Sandor has explained to me how he was traveling through Saltpans, trying to find a safe place for your little sister and he, when he was attacked. He also tells me that he was King Joffrey’s guard while you were betrothed to the king.” Ray stared at her meaningfully.

She nodded, “Oh. Yes. That’s right. Um… yes, I’m Queen Sansa.”

Sandor snorted, “Already calling yourself _queen_ , girl? Seems to me you need to take back Winterfell from the squids first, and if I were you, I wouldn’t step near the place, lest they’ll make you a bloody salt wife and you’ll be even worse off than with the imp.”

Nothing Sandor said made sense, but Sansa nodded, “Right, of course.” She cursed herself inwardly for not paying better attention during high school history class, though in her defense the entire time period Sandor was referring to was probably only one chapter of her Ancient Westeros textbook. She was pretty sure it was known as the Era of Kings. It would have been shortly after the Targaryen Era. After that came the Golden Era, then the Metal Era. Or was it Metal, then Gold? Then what was it? There was an Era of Peace… she vaguely recalled that being around the eighth century. Then the Disestablishment Period, right? Then the Industrial Era. Or was she missing some? The Industrial Era she was sure began in the late 900s and into the early 1000s. They were now in the year 1102. She wondered what this era would be called… _Are eras named while they’re happening, or much later? Duh, it must be later…_

Sandor and Ray were staring at her. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, “Sorry, gentlemen. My mind is elsewhere… obviously.” She felt her cheeks flush.

“No apologies needed!” Ray patted her knee in a paternal manner. By now she’d deduced that he was the psychiatrist sent to do an eval, which threw off her game plan somewhat. Last night she had thought of more questions she could ask Sandor – like if he had any relatives or friends other than Gregor and the Stark sisters. Perhaps part of his brain would recall people he knew in _present_ day. If the police could find those people and get them to come visit Sandor, perhaps it would help bring him back to reality.

Ray began talking again, “So, I’ve just told Sandor that in a few days—oh, Sandor, do you mind me sharing this information with Sansa?”

Sandor shrugged.

“Right, well, in a few days, if he is up to it, we might walk around the… premises. Assuming Dr. Murphy is in agreement. Of course, Sandor will be in a wheelchair, but perhaps he would get some reassurance to see that this is a place of healing.”

“Yes,” Sansa nodded eagerly, “not a torture chamber.”

Ray smiled softly, “Indeed. And I told him I have some tinctures that he can take that may help him feel better. Calmer. More at peace.”

“And I told you, old man, I won’t let you poison me,” Sandor growled.

“I wouldn’t let them poison you, Sandor,” Sansa smiled, “I need you to help find my sister, remember? In fact I’ve spoken with the doctors and have insisted that they give you the utmost care so that you heal and join me on my… quest. I think what Ray is talking about is something that will help… um… how should I explain it? Uh, well, you know your thigh is in very bad shape, right?”

“Aye. I’ve been injured before. I’ll be just fine.”

“Oh I know you will, but the wound is deep. Your muscles were cut. Which means you won’t be able to walk without assistance for a long time. Surely someone who is accustomed to being so… _strong_ , and… _independent_ will find that to be very frustrating. But what Ray gives you will help you not lose your temper. So that you can focus on regaining your strength. Do you understand?”

“Going to mess with my mind, that it?” Sandor scowled.

“No! Just… well, have you ever taken something to help you sleep?”

Sansa felt like she was grasping at straws until Sandor nodded, “Aye, milk of the poppy.”

“Oh, excellent! Well this new, um, _tincture_ they have is like that, except it won’t put you to sleep. It will just calm your mind. In fact, it is safer than milk of the poppy.”

Sandor eyed her suspiciously, “How do you know this? They letting women become maesters now?”

“Oh no, I um… in my travels I have… well, I have had to tend to the ill at times. I have learned what I needed to learn to help others.”

Sandor shook his head, “Why are you so calm, Sansa? Don’t you wonder what all this _stuff_ is?” He lifted his hands as best he could to point to all the equipment around him.

“Oh, yes… I, um… when I first saw it, I was quite shocked, too. But the… _maesters_ have learned a lot. They can treat injuries and illnesses much better thanks to all of this… stuff.”

“I don’t fucking like it,” he pouted. It was almost comical to see on such an intimidating man. “Everything is too bloody white. And noisy. And it smells like… I dunno, it just smells strange. Oh, speaking of strange… did anyone find Stranger?”

Sansa felt as if her heart stopped beating for a moment, “Stranger? How do you—” she whispered.

“Your sister left him free to graze. Selfish bugger didn’t even care that I was dying a few paces away. But whoever found me and brought me here, they may have found him. Can you check the stables?”

“Right… Stranger. Your… horse. Um, no, we didn’t find him. But I will ask around.”

Sandor shook his head in anger, though whether it was meant to be directed at her, the horse, or the people he thought brought him here, she wasn’t sure. “You’d better. That black beast is all I have left now. And he’ll take the fingers of anyone tries to get near, so best warn them.”

“I will,” Sansa’s voice trembled, but she tried to hide her shock. No one knew about Stranger. _Her_ Stranger. Even when Mya brought him to the vet, they simply called him “Kitty” Stark, since Sansa hadn’t named him. It was only when she realized she’d never stop greeting him with _“Howdy, Stranger”_ that she decided to just make it his name. But _no one_ knew she had a cat named Stranger. Not Arya, not Mya, not her friends from work. The only person who would know her cat’s name was someone who had been in her house and heard her speak to the cat, and she hadn’t had company in the past month since she’d taken him in.

_It's just a coincidence. Just a coincidence._

Sansa rose, “Actually, I’ll go see about that right now. Wouldn’t want anyone to lose a finger. Um, Ray, would you be able to join me?”

“Sure,” Ray stood, groaning a bit as his knees cracked, “Sandor, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sansa turned to the bed, but for some reason couldn’t meet the man’s eyes, “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

They shut the door and Sansa immediately rounded on the older doctor, even though he didn’t deserve her agitation, “What is going on?!”

Ray shrugged, “My guess right now is it is dissociative identity disorder, but I will not know until I talk to him more. If I’m right, eventually another identity, or personality, will emerge. One that is hopefully the man’s _real_ identity.”

“And if it’s not that?”

“Well, it could be schizophrenia, but I doubt it. He has the delusions, but his speech is clear, his mind and senses appear to be sharp, and he certainly isn’t having any difficulty expressing his emotions.” Ray’s eyes widened to indicate how much an understatement that was.

“What about simply a psychotic episode? Is that possible?”

Ray teetered his hand, “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t expect to see such conviction to his delusion. More likely, he’d fall in and out of the psychotic state. It could also be delusional disorder, but that is extremely rare, even in cases of physical or emotional trauma.”

“And the _tincture_ you plan to give him?”

“I’m thinking Seroquel.”

“An antipsychotic?”

“Mmhmm…”

“Right. So until then we’re going to keep going along with this delusion?”

“If he didn’t have the physical injuries I’d say _no_ , but I don’t want to risk upsetting him by disputing the facts which comprise his current reality. Dr. Murphy is adamant that he stays calm. So either we go out of our way to keep him calm, or…”

Sansa nodded, “Or he stays heavily sedated until his injuries heal.”

Sansa understood it was all for the best not to upset Sandor, yet she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man who – at the moment – had no friends, no family, and no idea what was going on. She couldn’t even imagine waking up in what appeared to be a different time, promptly being handcuffed to a bed, and not being given any satisfying answers to her questions. Part of her remained leery of this man – even more so now that he mentioned having a horse named Stranger – but a bigger part of her felt personally invested in helping him heal.

The problem, however, was that for the next few days she would have to go along with his delusion when she didn’t know the first thing about the time period that he believed he came from. She even knew little about her namesake, Queen Sansa of Winterfell. The very little she did know about the woman was related to her accomplishments _after_ becoming queen. But Sandor indicated she had not been crowned yet in his lifetime. Sansa vaguely recalled learning that she became queen at a young age. Eighteen, perhaps? She only remembered this fact because, when learning it, she felt proud to have been descended from a woman who achieved so much at such a young age.

Ray broke her trance, telling her he was leaving but would visit Sandor at the same time tomorrow.

Sansa returned to Sandor’s room and forced herself to smile, “So, I haven’t eaten yet, and I have some… uh, matters to attend to. Would it be alright if I left and came back in a few hours?”

Sandor looked disappointed but nodded, “Aye, and when you come back maybe you can convince them to give me something more to eat than a bit of cold ham on soft bread, and whatever the hells this is,” Sandor jerked his head toward the tray, where an unpeeled banana sat.

Sansa had to stifle a laugh, “Oh, that’s um… it’s more common here.” That was a lie; bananas were imported from Essos. She peeled it halfway and went to hand it to him before remembering he was still restrained. Someone must have fed him the aforementioned sandwich or freed one hand long enough for him to eat.

She held the banana to his lips, but he jerked his head away as if he thought it would bite him, “Looks like a bloody cock, I’m not putting that in my mouth!”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh this time. Rolling her eyes, she took a bite to demonstrate that there was nothing wrong with eating a banana.

Sandor’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open, “Little bird, please tell me you don’t eat these things in front of men.”

Sansa laughed even louder now, “Of course, everyone does.”

Sandor shook his head, “Most men will take that as an invitation. Unless you mean to get yourself raped, you’d best stop eating them.”

Sansa sighed, “Alright, if it makes you feel better, I won’t eat them in front of any men. Now, do you want it or not?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, “Rather watch you eat it.”

She laughed again even as she tried to remind herself that the man was crazy. But perhaps a little humor was good. After all, they do say laughter is the best medicine.

“Alright, well…” Sansa glanced at the whiteboard and saw no dietary restrictions, “What would you like to eat? I’ll bring it when I return.”

“Chicken,” he answered without pause, “A whole roast chicken, if you can spare it. And ale.”

_Well that’s going to be a problem._

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

Sansa didn’t actually have matters to attend to, or rather, it was only _one_ matter. She went home, sat in front of her computer, and gave herself a crash course on Sansa Stark’s life during the time period Sandor Clegane would have known her – starting with her meeting the then-royal family of Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and their heir Joffrey, in 298 AC, and ending in 300, when Sandor died.

Sansa’s parents had never encouraged her to research her namesake. They themselves probably didn’t know much of the woman’s life details, other than that she was once the Queen in the North. Sansa imagined her family was like most others, taking pride in its heritage without really _knowing_ its heritage.

Thus, Sansa was surprised to learn how tragic her namesake’s life was. She was betrothed to the Crown Prince of what was then called the Seven Kingdoms at the tender age of thirteen. She traveled with the King’s family, her father Eddard, and sister Arya to the capital. Shortly after that, King Robert died during a hunting excursion which wasn’t ruled murder at the time, but which historians later believed was, in fact, regicide. Shortly thereafter, Sansa’s father accused Cersei Lannister of cuckolding the late King – claiming that the three royal children, including Joffrey, were _not_ Robert’s sons. Eddard conspired with Robert’s brother Stannis, and the act cost him his head. Poor Sansa, still only a girl, was made to watch her father’s execution. Thinking of her own father James, tears came to Sansa’s eyes. Could anything be more traumatic than seeing your father beheaded at such a young age?

It was easy to go down rabbit holes and begin reading about the other goings-on in the realm at what proved to be a very chaotic time, but Sansa forced herself to focus only on her namesake.

After Eddard Stark’s execution and Joffrey’s coronation, Lady Sansa became a hostage of the Crown, though she continued to be Joffrey’s betrothed. However, she was frequently abused and humiliated at Joffrey’s command – and in front of an entire court of people that did nothing to stop it!

At some point she was abandoned by Joffrey and his guards during a riot, and apparently she was only saved from rape and likely death by one Sandor Clegane, better known as the Hound.

Young Sansa’s hardships didn’t end there. During her time in the capital she would have lost the rest of her family, except a half-brother named Jon who was serving at the ancient Wall. Sansa’s two younger brothers were believed to be killed (only years later resurfacing – but no doubt Sansa had mourned them as dead). And her mother and eldest brother were definitely killed in an event that lived on in infamy as the “Red Wedding”. It took place at a castle called the Crossing, also known as the Twins! _This is what Sandor mentioned when he spoke of his travels with Arya!_ Shortly after that, Sansa would have also lost an Aunt who lived in the Vale. _Just as Sandor said._ During all this time Sansa’s younger sister Arya was missing and presumed dead but was actually journeying through the Crownlands and Riverlands with a variety of protectors (lastly, Sandor Clegane) before leaving for Essos. 

Meanwhile, back in the capital, Sansa was wed (seemingly against her will) to Tyrion Lannister – the king’s uncle, who happened to be a dwarf. Apparently, their marriage was later annulled but that seemed to take place after Sandor Clegane would have died, sometime while Sansa was hiding in the Vale with her late aunt’s husband, Petyr Baelish, who had helped her flee the capital the same day King Joffrey was murdered at his own wedding to the woman for whom he had set Sansa aside. _Sounds like he deserved it!_

Accompanying the Westipedia page was a highly stylized portrait of Queen Sansa, painted in profile. The caption stated that the original portrait was painted in the year 303 on the day after Sansa’s coronation.

_Seventeen years old; holy crap. When I was seventeen, I smoked pot every day and wasn’t qualified to make an omelet, much less run a kingdom._

Though it wouldn’t help in her interactions with Sandor (rather, the man who _thought_ he was Sandor), Sansa’s curiosity got the better of her. She jumped to the part of the page describing Sansa’s death. It was in the year 310; Sansa died giving birth to her second son. Baby survived, mother didn’t. It was sad, but Sansa knew that childbirth was one of the main causes of death in women back then.

Sansa sighed wearily as she stared at the computer screen. It was all starting to feel overwhelming. The big events would be easy enough to remember, but names were a different thing. If Sandor spoke to her about people she should know or know of, she would have a hard time keeping up and he would question her. No doubt, young Sansa had interactions with dozens of people while she lived in the capital. The man at the hospital might mention any number of them, and Sansa would be clueless.

Truly, her best bet would be to _not_ visit the man at all, but for some reason that felt so very _wrong._ He was alone, in a strange place (to him) with no one but nurses and doctors who would check on him a few times a day but wouldn’t linger to make small talk. If they did, it would only anger the man because they would speak in modern terms he did not understand.

So her next best strategy was to shift the onus of conversation onto him. Make him talk about his life since leaving the capital during the Blackwater Battle; give him little opportunity to ask her about her life during that same period.

Taking comfort from that idea, she set about her next task – making a meal for him that _could_ have come from the late third century. She went to the grocery store and bought a 6-pack of nonalcoholic beer and a rotisserie chicken from the hot bar. Back home, she poured the beer into a stainless-steel travel mug, which she knew would still look quite modern, but was better than bright pink plastic, she supposed. She placed the chicken on a vintage ceramic plate and covered it with aluminum foil. Then she microwaved some carrots and wrapped them in foil after adding a generous lump of butter. She placed it all on an antique-ish silver platter along with a cloth napkin, fork, and butter knife.

None of it would look like it came from the time he believed he lived in, but certainly by now he’d seen aluminum cans, Styrofoam cups, plastic water pitchers, and plastic sporks at the hospital. It would have to suffice.

She arrived at the hospital carrying the tray like a butler and sheepishly asked one of the nurses if one of Sandor’s restraints could be removed so he could eat. The woman eyed her with barely concealed judgment but surprisingly nodded, “Well, if you can get him to eat, then I’m not going to complain. He says everything tastes like soap. The bread, the apples, the cheese. He said the water tastes like it’s poisoned, and don’t even ask what he said about the pudding cup and plastic spoon we gave him…”

_Oh the poor man must be starving!_

“But at least he ate a banana,” the nurse continued with a shrug.

Sansa blushed, “Actually, that was me. I… never mind. So you’ll remove one of his arm restraints?”

“Yep, lemme just call a couple guys from security to be on standby in case he gets violent again.”

The nurse made her call and then joined Sansa in walking into Sandor’s room. Sandor’s eyes lit when he saw Sansa, then immediately narrowed at the nurse, “She’s the one been trying to poison me, little bird.”

“Sandor don’t be rude. Cheryl is a friend of mine. She wouldn’t do that!”

Sandor grumbled his disbelief but by then was focused on the tray she placed down on his table, where a lonely pudding cup sat. Chocolate pudding was Sansa’s second favorite dessert, so she’d eat that while Sandor devoured his chicken.

Cheryl glared at Sandor, made him promise to “behave”, then freed his right hand. She left and Sansa began unwrapping everything as Sandor eyed it warily. “Where’s the ale?” he grumbled.

Sansa pulled the lid off the travel cup and handed it to him. He sniffed it, sipped it tentatively, then cringed, “Fucking swill.”

“Well, it’s all they have here. So either drink that or the water.”

“Fuck the water. Smell it, it’s poisoned.”

Sansa sighed in exasperation but poured herself a cup of water and drank from it while Sandor watched, aghast. Admittedly, it was pretty crappy water. You could definitely taste the chlorine. Sansa made a mental note to bring a bottle of the spring water she had at home – it was bottled at the source somewhere up north.

“Alright, well drink your swill and eat your chicken, alright? Cheryl says you’re not eating enough.”

“Everything tastes strange here. The bread is too soft, and they tried to get me to eat a cup of what looks like baby shite with a spoon that… I dunno, must have been made of dragonbone but it was made so thin the damned thing broke.”

Sansa pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at his colorful description of chocolate pudding, “Well you better not complain about this chicken… I had it made special for you.” Sansa unwrapped the rotisserie chicken and Sandor’s eyes lit up. Ignoring the cutlery he reached his right hand out and dug his fingers into the breast, tearing off meat and shoving it in his mouth.

“Sandor, I brought utensils.”

“Hmm?” he mumbled around a mouthful of chicken.

“A fork and knife. Here, let me cut it for you.”

“Don’t bother.”

She shook her head but let him eat as he would; only he couldn’t tear the bird apart properly with only one hand so, with a huff, Sansa rolled up her sleeves and twisted the drumsticks off for him. Within a minute they were nothing but a pair of clean bones.

“Maybe you should slow down. You haven’t eaten much recently.”

When he ignored her, she rolled the table away.

“Hey!”

“No – let your stomach rest. If you don’t feel ill in a few minutes, I’ll let you finish the chicken.”

“Fine. You can eat the carrots, little bird.”

“Nope, I just want your pudding.”

“My what?”

She pointed at what he had called baby shite.

“That’s _pudding?_ Why is it that color? Where are the raisins?”

Sansa shrugged as she pulled off the foil wrapper and dug in with a plastic spoon they must have brought in to replace the one he’d broken.

He watched in disgusted awe as she ate a spoonful.

“Mm… chocolate pudding. My favorite.”

“Chaw-co-lit?”

“Yes, it’s… um… a bean that they grow here. When mixed with sugar, it tastes delicious.”

Sandor shook his head dismissively, “Can I finish my chicken now?”

Sansa glanced at the clock, “Wait two more minutes.”

Sandor followed her eyes, “That’s for keeping track of time, isn’t it?”

She nodded, “Yes. It’s called a clock. Um… I think one of the maesters here invented it. I’m sure soon they’ll use them all over Westeros.”

Sandor scowled at her, “Sansa, you can stop with the mummery. I know what this is.”

She started to sweat, “Hmm? Pardon me?”

“I’m unconscious and this is all a fever dream. You know that you’re part of it, don’t you?”

“Uh…”

“Either that or I’m dead and this is… well I don’t know. It’s not as bad as I expected the Seven Hells would be, but not as good as I expected the Seven Heavens would be. Then again, you’re here, and this chicken is juicy and delicious, and I got to watch you eat that yellow thing, and you held my hand, and you keep calling me by my name.”

Damn, she really needed to practice _not_ crying. This man’s idea of heaven was holding her hand and hearing her say his first name? Oh, and eating a $5 supermarket chicken? Was his life so terrible that those little things seemed divine?

_Not his life, dummy. The life he **thinks** is his._

“Why do you cry so much, little bird? Is it because you know this isn’t real? Is it because this really is a hell and you’re stuck here, too? But why would the Gods send you here?”

“No, Sandor. Um, I suppose I just… feel sorry for you.”

“Me?” he scoffed, “Your tears are wasted on an old dog like me, girl.”

“Don’t say that… you’re a good man. You… you saved me, remember?”

His brow knitted and for a moment she worried she had misremembered, until he spoke, “Aye, but might be I shouldn’t have.”

“What? But the rioters were going to… hurt me.”

He shook his head, “I’m talking about the bridge – when Joffrey made you look at your father’s head on a pike. Along with your septa’s head, and all the other men you came south with.”

“Oh… I um, forgot about that.” _Damn! I don’t remember reading anything about that!_

Sandor shook his head, “I’ll never forget. It was the first time I saw the little bird had talons. Joffrey wanted your tears, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Then you walked out. We both know what you were going to do, little bird. Push him over, even if it meant going over with him.”

“Oh… but you stopped me?”

“Aye... Do you wish I hadn’t?” his eyes were serious and dark when he looked up at her from beneath his strong brow.

“Well… why did you stop me? To save the king you served, or to save me?”

He looked away abruptly, and his countenance became irate. She wasn’t sure why – was it because she had forced him to create parts of the fantasy that he wasn’t prepared for? Or was he still “in character” as Sandor Clegane and reacting in such a way?

“Can I eat that chicken now?” he mumbled.

Sansa nodded even though he wasn’t facing her, then cleared her throat, “Yes, just please eat it more slowly.”

She sat down and watched him as he tore every last bit of meat off the small chicken, but he did eat it more slowly, and even ate a few of the carrots, and washed it down with the “ale” even though he made a face with every sip.

“I think you already know I did it for you,” he spoke out of nowhere, “if I’d done it for him, I’d have told him what you were planning, wouldn’t I? I’d also have told him that you were lying that day – at his nameday tourney. You think I gave a fuck about that fat drunk of a knight? I’ve lied very few times in my life, girl. Most of them have been for _you_. I said a dog would die for you but never lie to you, didn’t I? Well when it comes to you a dog would die for you and lie for you, but never lie _to_ you.”

Sansa nodded. No matter how many times she reminded herself this man was delusional, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to think of him as the real Sandor Clegane. He spoke with such conviction, though no theatrics. He wasn’t playing a part – to him, he _was_ Sandor Clegane. And she _was_ Sansa Stark – well, the first Sansa Stark.

Even stranger, she felt herself falling into that role he attributed to her. She felt like Sansa, daughter of Ned and Catelyn, betrothed to King Joffrey. She felt like she was talking to the real Sandor Clegane as the real Sansa Stark, even though she had none of the woman’s memories. It was strange, and while it seemed dangerous to let herself be pulled into his imaginary world, there was something appealing about it. Because this man he pretended to be certainly loved the woman he thought she was. He had never said so, but it was clear in his words and his mannerisms, the emotion in his voice, that he loved her. Her mere presence and platonic touches were enough to have him think he might be in heaven.

_Did any of my ex-boyfriends think it was heaven just to be near me? Or to hold my hand?_

_That’s a big fat NO._

_Shit, why am I comparing him to my exes?_

“So now will you return the favor, and not lie to your dog?”

Sansa’s eyes snapped up. The man was facing her again. She nodded even as she tried to clear her mind of the confusing subject of her thoughts.

“What is this, truly? The Heavens, the Hells, a fever dream? Tell me Sansa, because I feel I’m going mad in this strange place, surrounded by strange people and strange things and strange food! Is this all some elaborate jape? Have you hired some traveling mummer’s company? Whatever it is, just tell me, _please,_ Sansa!”

His use of her name made her nearly flinch. When he called her ‘little bird’ it was a subtle reminder that he wasn’t really talking to her, but some woman who was a figment of his imagination. Hearing him call her ‘Sansa’ felt… strange.

She nodded again and swallowed more tears. This man was so painfully confused. His eyes in that moment reminded Sansa of Lady’s eyes the first time her family had to board her at a kennel. Her eyes were so alert, so wary, and Sansa remembered wishing they could communicate so she could tell Lady that she wasn’t leaving her forever, just for a few days.

A livestream of the kennel had showed that Lady was just fine after about twenty minutes. She became fascinated with everything going on around her, sniffing the air to take in the many new scents. But Lady was a dog. This was a _man_ – a person. While Lady could let herself become distracted by the novel sights, smells, and sounds, a person could not be so easily fooled. For Sandor, it was those strange sights, smells, and sounds that were causing his fear to begin with.

Sansa took a breath, “It isn’t a dream. Nor is it the Heavens or the Hells. Nor a mummer’s show. It’s… well, I’m sorry but I can’t tell you what it is, I can only promise that you will soon find out, and that you will not be hurt. Is that enough for now, Sandor? Can you trust me that I wouldn’t lie to you, even if I cannot tell you the full truth?” She smiled at him, silently imploring him to agree.

He nodded slowly, and she was surprised by his near immediate surrender until he spoke, “Perhaps it’s something I don’t really want to know…”

He sounded so defeated that Sansa felt like her heart was breaking for the poor man.

Her shift didn’t start for two more hours but she definitely needed to decompress or else she’d be totally useless. She cleared her throat and stood, “Um, I have to go to w—Uh, I have matters to attend. I’ll stop my tomorrow night, okay?”

Sandor nodded, but wasn’t looking at her.


	5. “I told you it would sound crazy.”

Sansa didn’t bother going to sleep Saturday morning after getting home from work. Instead she spent all morning reading everything there was to know about the man called Sandor Clegane – the Hound – on the internet. While there was an abundance of information on Sansa Stark, there was very little on Sandor, and much of it was unconfirmed, some of it mere speculation by historians. Surprisingly, some of the “facts” presented about him were attributed to Sansa and Arya Stark, who recounted some of his heroic deeds after his death as a way to honor a man who was feared and hated by most, but who had helped the sisters in whatever way he was able.

Among the seemingly undisputed facts about him was that Sandor was sworn shield to Cersei Lannister and later Cersei’s son Joffrey Baratheon. That he was very tall. That half of his face was disfigured by scarring caused by a fire when he was a child--

Sansa gasped. _How on earth…?_

How many people have such distinctive scars?! What were the odds that this modern mystery patient had scars similar to this historical knight?

Sansa rubbed her eyes, eventually coming up with only one logical explanation – that this man had been burned, perhaps when he was a child, and later read about a knight of old who had a similar injury. Perhaps the boy clung to the idea that he was this knight, to help himself deal with his horrible injuries.

Sansa felt shaken, but she continued reading more facts about the real Sandor Clegane…

He saved both Joffrey and Sansa during the Bread Riots of King’s Landing. He fought valiantly at first, but later abandoned his post during the Blackwater Battle. He once dueled a Ser Beric Dondarrion to clear his own name from crimes of which he was charged. His corpse was found beneath a tree by the Elder Brother of a holy place called Quiet Isle, in the year 300. He died of multiple wounds inflicted by sword, most notably a laceration to his chest and a deep laceration running much of the length of his left thigh.

This time Sansa almost fell out of her chair. Since finding the mystery man outside the hospital and later hearing his crazed tale, she had been living under the assumption that someone attacked him, and the physical trauma was the catalyst for his mental breakdown. But clearly, whoever inflicted the wounds did so in a manner that closely mimicked the fatal wounds the real Sandor Clegane received.

Was it possible he was so obsessed with the infamous Hound that he inflicted the wounds on himself? But then, how did he arrive at the hospital? And why didn’t whoever brought him stay with him instead of dumping him in the bushes?

All at once Sansa had a realization, one so obvious she laughed aloud at herself, much to Stranger’s confusion. She phoned Detective Pike.

 _“Randall Pike.”_ The man answered in a somewhat exasperated tone.

“Hello, Detective Pike, this is Sansa Stark.”

 _“Eh, yes… Ms. Stark. What can I do for you?”_ It seemed to take him a moment to place her name, and Sansa wondered if that meant he wasn’t focusing very much on Sandor’s case. And that made her angry.

Nonetheless, she kept her tone friendly. One can catch more flies with honey, and all that jazz… “Detective Pike, I was just curious – did you watch the surveillance footage from the front of the E.R. entrance to see who or whom dropped off San- the man who calls himself Sandor Clegane?”

Sansa could hear the man take a deep breath before responding, _“We have, Ms. Stark, but as it’s part of an ongoing investigation, I cannot share those details with you.”_

“Oh, of course. Makes sense. Well, thanks anyway!”

Sansa hung up. To anyone else it might have felt like hitting a brick wall, but Sansa Stark was tenacious. She always had been.

…

Sansa napped for a few hours in the afternoon. At six that evening she headed over to the hospital with another rotisserie chicken in tow, along with more nonalcoholic beer and a loaf of organic hearty whole grain bread that Sandor might find more to his liking.

After sitting with Sandor while he ate, Sansa went to find Dr. Murphy, who she knew was working that evening thanks to a quick call to Cheryl earlier in the day.

“Dr. Murphy?” Sansa called to his back just before he ducked into a patient’s room.

“Nurse Stark – is everything alright?”

“Oh yes, I just had a question for you.”

“Well, anything for you! The nurses have told me that our _Mr. Clegane_ wouldn’t be eating if it weren’t for you. You should really think about transferring out of E.R. into the ICU, or any inpatient ward, really.”

The doctor’s kind words struck a chord. Indeed, it was fulfilling to be able to help with this man who no one else could get through to, even if the only reason she “got through” was because he chose her as the stand-in for the young princess he once cared for. In the E.R., patients came and went and there was little time to build rapport.

Perhaps she should consider a transfer, but now wasn’t the time to think about it. She nodded gratefully and moved on to her real motive in speaking with Dr. Murphy, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, I’m just curious if you think Mr. Clegane’s wounds could have possibly been self-inflicted.”

Dr. Murphy sucked air between his teeth, “ _Possibly?_ Yes. Likely? I highly doubt it. I’ve seen plenty of self-harm. I’ve treated plenty of self-harm. His lacerations – particularly the one on his thigh – were quite deep. There would have been a lot of blood loss and tremendous pain. Why do you ask? Has he said something to you to indicate he may be suicidal?”

“No… quite the opposite, actually. It’s… well, it’s silly, but I looked up this Sandor Clegane – the historical figure, I mean. He died of wounds that are alarmingly similar to what our patient has suffered.”

“Ahh,” Dr. Murphy nodded, “so you think in his obsession with this historical figure, he went so far as to try to kill himself the way the man actually died?”

Sansa shrugged, “I mean, it’s sad, but I can’t think of a better explanation.”

Dr. Murphy mirrored her shrug, “Well, like I said, I wouldn’t put money on the wounds being self-inflicted, but yes – it’s within the realm of possibility. Really though, this is information you should share with Elder if you haven’t already.”

“Who?”

Dr. Murphy chuckled, “Sorry, habit. Dr. Elderman. All the other doctors call him Elder, because he’s been here forever, and for as long as anyone’s known him, he’s been old.” Dr. Murphy blushed, “He’s in on it, for the record.”

_Elderman._

_Elder Man_

_Elder Brother._

Sansa shook her head, “Right… um… okay, I’ll tell him. The other thing I was curious about – the burn scars on his face, could you tell how old they are?”

“Well he told me they were sustained when he was a young boy, but I find it hard to believe they wouldn’t have healed better if he’d sustained them at such a young age. I mean, honestly, they look like they were never treated at all. No skin graft, no laser therapy. I mean, I’m not a reconstructive surgeon, but I can’t imagine that what he looks like now is the best _anyone_ could do.”

Sansa rubbed her forehead, trying to stop her brain from running away with itself, but too many things seemed to vindicate this man’s story that he _was_ Sandor Clegane. His height, his scars, his injuries… the archaic way his burns were treated. The way he spoke, the way he ate. The fact that he had no tattoos.

_But certainly he can’t be **the** Sandor Clegane. All of this only proves that he has **lived** as if he were Sandor Clegane... _

Perhaps his parents were some crazies that raised him as if it was the late 200s… even going so far as to injure their own child to turn him into this knight they were obsessed with. But did things like that happen in real life? It sounded more like the premise for some dark thriller movie. Working in the E.R., Sansa wasn’t naïve to how parents could abuse their own children, but what she was envisioning now seemed particularly twisted and cruel. Not some heat of the moment yank of the arm, but a commitment to a long-term and very perverse form of abuse.

She shook her head, not allowing herself to lose focus now, “Dr. Murphy, it seems as if this man has lived – for at least some of his life – as if he’s from a more primitive time. Would you agree with that?”

Dr. Murphy pursed his lips but nodded.

“Is there _anything_ that indicates he has _ever_ benefited from the medical advances of today? I mean, dental fillings or crowns? A cochlear implant or… was he wearing contact lenses? Does he have an insulin pump? Scar from a smallpox shot… _anything_?”

Dr. Murphy snorted, “The man’s not even circumcised. But I’m glad we’re talking about this. We should check him for antibodies and get him vaccinated if need be. If he was raised in some kind of weird, anti-medicine commune or something like that we shouldn’t take any chances.”

“Ugh… he won’t like having his blood drawn or being stuck with needles,” Sansa sighed.

“Yeah… might need your help with that,” Dr. Murphy winced.

She smiled at the doctor, “Forget about the bloodwork, it won’t hurt to get the vaccines even if he’s had them before. Would you like me to stop by tomorrow?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I’m due to leave here in thirty but I’ll be back in around 10 AM tomorrow.”

Sansa nodded, “Thanks, doc.”

Sansa felt disheartened as she walked to her next and last stop. All she wanted to do was find out who this man _really_ was, but the more she learned and the more she spoke to him, the harder it was to believe he was born in the 11th century. She knew that was craziness. He obviously wasn’t Sandor Clegane, but someone had done a damned good job making him believe he was. Which begged the question – was he actually crazy? If you’re raised your entire life to believe something, even if it’s wrong, are _you_ crazy for believing it? No, you’re not. The fact that there were multiple religions proved this. A small minority of people believed in a deity that had seven faces, seven identities, but no one called them crazy for it even as the vast majority now believed in a single, omnipresent god.

Arriving at her destination, she knocked on the doorframe. Jim smiled up at her from the office chair he sat in. The chair had seen better days, as had the man, but Sansa liked Jim. He worked nights, like her, so she saw him anytime there was a violent patient and security needed to be called. He was a smoker, so when Sansa stepped outside for fresh air once or twice during her shift, she sometimes found Jim out there – standing thirty feet away per hospital policy, enjoying a smoke. 

“Hey, Sansa, what brings you down to the dungeons?”

Given Sandor’s comparison of the hospital to a torture chamber, she couldn’t bring herself to laugh at Jim’s joke. Instead she got right to the point, “You know that guy that came in a few days ago – multiple lacerations, so the police were investigating?”

Jim’s face became uncharacteristically serious, “Yeah, what about him?”

“I was wondering – did you see the security footage from when he was dropped off?”

Now Jim’s face was turning red, “I did…”

“Could you… maybe… show it to me? Or tell me what you saw?”

“Sorry Sansa, but the cops took the tape. And anyway, they told me not to tell anyone what I saw since it’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

“Well, can you at least tell me if he was dropped off or did he, I dunno, somehow come here by himself?”

Jim shook his head, “I’m not supposed to say anything. You know I would, Sansa, but the cops made it clear—”

“Listen, Jim,” Sansa was ready with her lie, having expected that Jim would be disinclined to show her the footage, “I only ask because the guy… well I’ve been helping them with him, he seems to trust me… but he has made comments that are alarming. That my life might be in danger. That the people that hurt him might come after me. Maybe he’s just crazy, but if they could do that to him – this big, brawny man – what could they do to me?”

_I’m going to hell._

“So maybe you could just tell me the kind of car that dropped him off, so I can be on the lookout for that make and model… or whether the people who dropped him off were black, white, old, young… anything? I promise I won’t tell anyone that you told me.”

Jim grimaced, “Sansa, I wish I could help you, but honestly, you won’t believe me if I told you.”

“I don’t understand…”

He shook his head and took a deep breath, “Promise you won’t say I’m crazy?”

“Jim, I’ve seen crazy. You’re _not_ it.”

“Damn, Sansa.” He took another deep breath, “There was no car. No van. No truck. No vehicle at all.”

“So someone carried him?”

“There were no other people. He just… _appeared._ ” Jim held his hands out as if to say _“ta-da!”_

“What?!”

“I told you it would sound crazy.”

“No – I just… what do you mean, he _appeared_?”

Jim rubbed his forehead, “I mean his feet were all that was clearly visible on camera. The rest of him was partially obstructed by the bushes. One second there was nothing there, and the next second – feet!”

Sansa’s fingers moved to her lips, “Jim, could someone have messed with the tape – I mean, um, edited out the part of it where they brought him?”

“They would have had to get their hands on the tape, edit it, and return it here without anyone noticing. This room is _never_ unoccupied, since we keep an eye on the entire facility from here – every entrance and exit, the parking deck, the elevators… Besides, the tape didn’t skip. There was no noticeable skip, anyway. It was like the feet…” Jim began laughing through his nose, shaking his head, though his expression was more troubled than amused, “God, I know how this sounds… it was like they just… _materialized!_ ”

“Oh my God, Jim! You must have freaked out when you saw that.”

Jim breathed out a sigh of relief, probably glad that Sansa believed him and wasn’t suggesting he go lie down, “Uh, _yeah_. I kept rewinding it and re-watching it but after the fourth time the detective told me to give him the tape. Guy looked as shocked as I felt.”

Sansa couldn’t stop shaking her head. Jim sighed again, “See? I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

A small chuckle came out. And then another. And then another. Soon her head was thrown back and she couldn’t stop laughing, “You know what Jim? I _do_ believe you.”


	6. So how’s your knight?

Sansa didn’t know where she was, or how she’d gotten there. She stood in a dark field, far away from the trees that lined the perimeter. There were what looked like torches in the distance but too far away to illuminate the place where she stood. She was so disoriented that she didn’t realize someone was speaking to her at first. A deep, rasping voice that was familiar to her – a voice that was both comforting and frightening.

She turned and saw _him…_ Sandor Clegane. He wore clothing she’d never seen – scratchy looking pants and an equally scratchy looking shirt – dark red, with three dogs stitched onto the chest. He had a torch in his hand, but she hadn’t noticed its glow until she turned toward him. Yet now her eyes were fixated on that torch. It seemed to represent protection, though from what she did not know. She watched the flames dance instead of looking at Sandor’s face, even though she desperately wanted to look at him. He would look like safety, she was sure, but she couldn’t command her eyes to gaze at him.

“…You think Gregor didn’t notice that? You think Ser Gregor’s lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, you believe that, you’re empty-headed as a bird for true. Gregor’s lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Look at me. Look at me!” His warm fingers grabbed her chin and tilted up her head. His lips curled into a snarl as he stared down at her. Her neck was craned back so far, and she realized the top of her head barely came up to his chest. She had shrunken, or he had grown.

He dropped to a squat before her without releasing her chin. He moved the torch slightly closer to himself, but still a safe distance from his face, “There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look.”

She stared at the scars that were, by now, quite familiar to her. She wasn’t sure why he was making her look, or what he wanted her to say, but before she could speak again, he beat her to it.

“No pretty words for that, girl? No little compliment the septa taught you?” He sighed, “Most of them, they think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was dragonsbreath.” Sandor laughed then – a soft and bitter sound, “I’ll tell you what it was, girl… I was younger than you, six, maybe seven. A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father’s keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don’t remember what I got, but it was Gregor’s gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him, he was already a squire, near six foot tall and muscled like an ox. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who’s been burned knows what hell is truly like…” Sandor began to trail off, staring wistfully at some random spot on her dress.

_My dress!_

She glanced down at herself and a surge of memories came to the forefront of her mind. Spending hours embroidering the fabric under the tutelage of an older woman, a woman who she also associated with both fear and comfort; a woman who was stern but also compassionate. Her name was on the tip of her tongue… Monica? Mona? Moira? Morgan? Mor--

Before she could figure it out, Sandor spoke again, “My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments!” he laughed scathingly, “Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise, Ser Gregor.’”

His voice trailed off again. Sansa wanted to offer some words of comfort but was distracted by a distant beeping sound. Sandor seemed oblivious to it. They _were_ in a field; perhaps some farm vehicle was approaching. She turned all around to look for the source of the noise, which was getting louder even though she saw nothing that could be the source of the shrill sound that seemed so at odds with her surroundings.

Sansa’s head came up from the pillow, confused for a moment until she realized it was her alarm clock making the noise. It wasn’t the first time her alarm clock ripped her straight from a dream. As she worked nights, but only three shifts per week, she’d never fallen into a regular sleep routine. Some days she’d pass out as soon as she got in from work and sleep a full eight hours, waking up when it was dark outside. Other days she couldn’t pull off more than a nap and would stay awake all day and go to sleep that night, assuming she didn’t have work. It certainly wasn’t healthy, but she never wanted to become a day sleeper. She liked the sun. She liked being active – shopping, running errands, jogging, and other things she couldn’t do at night.

As she laid in bed and thought about the dream she’d been roused from, she groused to herself. Not only had this man infiltrated most of her waking thoughts (she’d laid in bed for several hours last night thinking about what Jim had told her), but now he had invaded her _dreams_. And it was such a vivid dream, too. She could remember the entire story about his brother holding his face into a brazier over a toy. She wondered if this was the real story of how the Hound was burned, or perhaps how the man in the hospital was burned.

_But last night I thought they were one in the same._

_And how would I know the true story of the burns? If that even **is** the real story!_

It was 10 AM – Sansa had set her alarm so she wouldn’t sleep the day away. She had some errands to run and wanted to bring Sandor both lunch and dinner. He still wasn’t eating much of the hospital food and no matter how well he ate at dinner it would be healthier for him to eat 2-3 meals each day. Sansa tried not to wonder why she felt so personally responsible for him. She’d never been responsible for anything or anyone but herself, and now within about a month’s time she was responsible for a cat and a dog. _Hah!_

As Sansa headed to the grocery store her phone rang. She answered on Bluetooth and Arya didn’t waste any time with a friendly greeting or inquiry into her sister’s wellbeing, _“So how’s your knight?”_

Sansa groaned, “Don’t make fun, Arya. He has a mental impairment.” It was only when she said those words out loud that Sansa realized how much she didn’t believe them anymore. But believing the alternative – that he _was_ Sandor Clegane – was just as fantastical.

_“I’m not making fun! I think it’s cool. You remember when I tried fencing? It was fun, and I’ve often wanted to try again. Think he can teach me?”_

“Ugh! I’m not going to give a nearly seven-foot-tall mental patient a sword so he can spar with my little sister!”

_“A **fake** sword, duh. Remember those foam nunchucks Uncle Chris gave me?”_

“I remember that they still gave me a black eye.”

 _“Oh shit,”_ Arya chuckled, _“I forgot about that.”_

“Well I didn’t! Let’s see, there was also the boomerang phase, the butterfly knife phase… Actually, come to think of it, I’d trust the big crazy guy with a sword before I’d trust _you_ with one.”

Arya giggled unapologetically. Sansa couldn’t help but join her.

_“So, did you figure out his real name yet?”_

“Nope.”

 _“Alright, well I was thinking… remember we did that DNA ancestry thing?_ ”

“Yeah. You were 65% Northern, 35% Riverlandian and I was the inverse. We thought that meant Dad cheated on Mom until we read the explanation and it said it had to do with which genes—”

 _“Stop! I remember! No need to get all_ medical geek _on me. My point is, why don’t you take a swab of this guy’s mouth and send it in?”_

Sansa gasped, “Arya, you’re a genius! And I can create an account for him on the FamilyTree website and see if any other members appear to be related!”

_“Yup! Pretty smart, right?”_

“Hey, I already said you’re a genius.”

_“Yeah, but I want to hear it again.”_

“Fine…” Sansa took a deep breath to add the gravity to her words, “Arya Stark, you are a gen…uine ass.”

Arya laughed, _“Fuck you, too.”_

…

The day got away from her and Sansa decided two trips to the hospital weren’t in the cards for her. Instead, she’d bring a late afternoon meal to Sandor along with ample snacks for later.

At three o’clock she set out to a nearby steakhouse. She’d called in an order for a ribeye with baked potato and corn on the cob. She hoped they had corn back in the year 300 but was fairly certain they had potatoes.

Sansa repeated the ritual of transferring the meal out of its carry-out container onto a ceramic dish and wrapping it with foil inside the staff break room on Sandor’s floor. He had been transferred out of the ICU, and Sansa feared they were getting close to the time they would release him. Except he wouldn’t be released because they thought he was a nutjob. She didn’t know which frightened her more – the idea of this man being released out into a world he didn’t recognize, with no family or friends to take care of him, and a strong likelihood he would hurt himself or someone else – or the idea of him being committed to a psychiatric facility when maybe he wasn’t _actually_ insane.

Sandor looked happy to see her, or at least as happy as he ever looked. It seemed he had earned the staff’s trust enough that they let his right arm remain free, so he had no problem digging into the steak. He held it with his hand and bit right into it. The entire thing was gone, other than the bone, before he used the fork to take a few bites of the potato. He then held up the corn cob and glared at Sansa, “Another yellow cock? Are you that intent on making me look like a fairy?”

She chuckled lightly, “You eat it _horizontally_ , not vertically.”

He shrugged and dropped it on his plate. He then cleared his throat and spoke in a forced casual tone, “I tried that concoction you call pudding…”

“Oh yeah? And?”

She swore a bit of color came to his cheeks, “It was actually pretty damned good.”

Sansa grinned victoriously, “See? I told you, you can trust me.”

He jerked his chin toward her bowl, “What are you eating?”

She stared down at the grilled chicken salad in her lap, “Oh, it’s lettuce and chicken with a… sauce.”

Sandor leaned as closed as he could get then scrunched his nose, “Smells like feet.”

She giggled again, “Yeah, I guess the cheese and the vinegar combine to make a rather foot-like aroma.”

“This the shite they feed you here? Why didn’t you ask for some of my meat?”

“Oh, well… I actually like this,” she took a bite to prove her point, but Sandor obviously wasn’t convinced. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you a question, Sandor.”

“Aye, go on.” 

“You said the other day that I’m the only person you ever told about… about how you got your burns.”

His face became tight, “What of it?”

“Well… can you humor me? Can you tell me the story again?”

“You forgot, little bird?”

“No, I remember, but I wanted to see if _you_ remember. You see, the doc- the maesters think you bumped your head during the brawl at the inn. I thought maybe I should test your memory.”

He took a deep, annoyed breath, “It was Gregor. Angry that I was playing with his toy knight, not that he ever played with the damned thing. Held my face in a brazier until all I was aware of was the sound of men yelling and the smell of meat cooking. With the meat being _me._ Happy now, girl?”

_No… not happy, not exactly._

She nodded nonetheless, “You first told me that story at night. Do you remember where we were?”

“Aye, the fields beyond the castle, after the tourney in honor of your _father._ Don’t ask me for much more, I was pretty damned drunk that night. Surprised I didn’t scare you witless, girl.”

Sansa nodded again, though it took much effort, “That’s very good, Sandor. I… Well, thank you.”

“Ready to tell me what’s going on yet?” he peered up at her though his attention remained on the baked potato. The phallic vegetable remained untouched.

Sansa took a deep breath, “I need to speak to Ray first.”

“So he knows, too?”

Sansa nodded.

Sandor’s tone became irate in an instant, “Who else knows? Does everyone know? Am I the only fool who doesn’t know what’s going on?!”

“No, Sandor! And actually, Ray doesn’t know. It’s more like… I just need to talk to him.”

His eyes narrowed, “You trust him, do you?”

She shrugged, “I think I can. In this matter, at least.”

“But you don’t trust everyone else?”

She sighed, not knowing how best to state this, “I trust them not to hurt you or me. But they may not… believe me.”

“Believe you?”

She scratched her neck though it didn’t itch, “Not everyone here is convinced you’re a… good person.”

He snorted, “I’m _not_ a good person. You know that better than anyone, little bird. But I don’t bother anyone who doesn’t bother me.”

“Right. That’s what I mean.”

“Yet you say I’m in no danger here?” his good eyebrow lifted skeptically.

“That’s correct. Here they… they don’t execute people unless they think they are… _evil_. If they think someone did bad things but couldn’t help themselves, or because someone else made them do those things, they are forgiven.”

“So what? I’m to go on trial for all the things I’ve done under orders? Under the old lion’s orders? Under Robert’s, Cersei’s, Joffrey’s?”

“Um, not a trial, really. Someone may just want to talk to you. To hear your side of things.”

“Who’s this someone? The Lord of Harrenhal? I thought that was Littlefinger, after Gregor’s men left.”

“No, it would be a maester, not a lord. Someone like Ray.”

Sandor glared at her again, and she could tell he was looking for deceit. His scrutiny made her squirm, “Little bird, you never told me how you got here.”

“Oh!” this was something she could answer – sort of. “I left during King Joffrey’s wedding, after he died. Petyr Baelish got me out. And he brought me here. Well, um, as a stop on the way to meet my Aunt in the Vale. Except she died! Yes, before we could get there. So we stayed here.” Her confidence waned when she realized it was much harder to speak about things you never _actually_ experienced, even if you were familiar with the events.

Sandor’s lips curled, “Never trusted that cunt.”

“My aunt?”

“No, Baelish – _littlefucker_. He’s as slimy as they come, girl. You’d best keep your distance. And remember he had eyes for your mother, who you resemble so well.”

“Well yes, I’ll be careful. He isn’t here too often, though. He has a lot of business matters to attend to, eh, outside the castle.”

“Hmpf – you mean his brothels? Ah yes, I’m sure he needs to _attend_ those _matters_ in person.”

Sansa decided to divert the conversation back to him, “So does this mean you’ve decided that you’re not in a dream? Or in the hells or heavens?”

Sandor shrugged, “It’s too bloody boring to be the heavens _or_ hells. And if it was a dream, then why is it constant? Why do I go to sleep and wake up in the same dream?”

“Good points. So you know this is real life?”

“Aye, but that doesn’t mean there is anything normal about it, least of all the way you talk and dress and seem so calm. You were always so afraid, little bird. Now you’re…” he shook his head and swallowed hard, “Do I even want to know what happened to harden you so?”

His eyes looked so sad, and once again she could see the genuine caring this rough man had for her. Er, for Sansa Stark. The other Sansa Stark.

Eventually she shrugged, “I grew up, Sandor.”

She didn’t want to leave, knowing she was his only companion, but the longer she stayed the more likely she was to slip up. She cleared her throat, “I, um, I brought you some more food. For later.” She produced a bag of mixed nuts, beef jerky, an organic apple (non-organic fruit tasted like soap), and some hearty whole grain rolls, pre-buttered.

He barely looked at the food, only nodding absently to acknowledge he had heard her.

“Do you need anything before I head out?”

He shook his head, and she couldn’t stop herself from taking his hand, “Hey, I’ll come see you tomorrow evening, okay?”

He nodded weakly, and it took all her might to walk out the door.

…

Sansa headed to the library as soon as it opened Monday morning. She had a lot of work to do before bringing Sandor dinner this evening then starting her shift at eight.

The Internet was only providing the barest summaries of Sandor Clegane’s life, all regurgitating the same information, and Sansa knew she needed more.

With some help from the librarian she located several books that were likely to contain information on the man known as the Hound, who lived from about 271 to 300 AC.

She found a brief summary about him in a book on the famous knights and military figures during the _Era of Kings_. It told her nothing new, other than outlining the various skirmishes he’d been a part of.

He was also mentioned in biographies of Tywin Lannister, Robert Baratheon, Joffrey Baratheon, and Cersei Lannister, but only in the context of how he served them.

His house’s history was mentioned in a book on the Westerlands during the Targaryen Era. Apparently, his grandfather’s hunting hounds saved the then-lord Lannister when he was attacked by a lioness. In thanks, Lord Lannister awarded him what became known as Clegane Keep – and the three-dog sigil was born.

_I saw that sigil in the dream… it was stitched into Sandor’s shirt pocket…_

Sansa had to push that thought aside. (She’d been doing a lot of that lately.) Instead, she opened the next book, which was a biography of Arya Stark, who outlived her elder sister by a few decades and became famous in her own right.

The book briefly described a young Arya’s time traveling with Sandor Clegane who acted as her protector, even if his intent was only to ransom her to whatever of her family he could find. However, the author suggested that Sandor Clegane could have easily ransomed her to any number of _enemies_ of her family – that he didn’t proved he wasn’t entirely selfish.

Thinking she’d have better luck in the books on House Stark, since both sisters seemed fond of Sandor Clegane, Sansa pulled everything she could find on the great northern house during that time period.

It was when her hand tugged on the spine of a book titled _Sansa Stark: The First and Last Queen of Winter_ , that Sansa’s entire body froze.

The cover of the book featured a portrait of Sansa Stark… and it was like looking in the mirror.

She frantically rifled through the pages until she found the same portrait within. The caption read: _“Queen Sansa Stark, Great Hall of Winterfell, 307 AC”._

The woman in the portrait was standing regally beside a tall hearth, in partial profile. She wore a light gray dress that dusted the floor. Her dark red hair was in a long braid that extended below her ribs. A delicate silver crown sat on her head. On her neck was a faint birthmark in the exact place where Sansa had one, just below her jawline. Her skin was paler than Sansa’s, her hair darker, but that could easily be explained by the fact that women of that period spent very little time outdoors. Other than that, she was Sansa. Or Sansa was her.

Having some minor resemblance to an ancestor from so many generations ago was possible, but to look like the person’s twin? She couldn’t fathom how it was possible.

Sansa abandoned her search for Sandor Clegane and instead yanked out every book on Sansa or House Stark that she could fine.

In one, titled _Artwork of Winterfell,_ photos of actual paintings that had at some point hung in what was once the castle of Winterfell were shown. The oldest dated to three hundred years before Sansa Stark was born, the newest dated one hundred years after she died.

Sansa found a portrait of _other_ Sansa’s father, Eddard Stark. He looked nothing like her own father, James, other than having dark brown hair. Similarly, the portrait of Catelyn Tully Stark looked nothing like her mother Susan, other than having red hair and blue eyes. Yet somehow, James and Susan made a daughter that looked _identical_ to Ned and Catelyn’s daughter, only 800 years later.

Sansa’s head was spinning. Her brain wasn’t even capable of processing this all right now, so she just kept mindlessly flipping through pages. There was a portrait of Arya Stark when she was 20 years old, but other than dark hair and eyes, she didn’t resemble Sansa’s little sister. Sansa actually felt relieved.

There were portraits of the two sons that Sansa birthed, the elder of whom became the next King in the North. There was a portrait of the man she took as Consort at the ripe old age of eighteen. There was a portrait of her crippled younger brother and her handsome cousin Jon, who was raised believing he was a half-brother of Sansa and her siblings. Of course there were also paintings of the northern landscape and wildlife, and of the castle itself. There was even a painting of Jon’s pet wolf, Ghost. And a—

_What. The. Fuck…_

Immediately following the painting of Ghost was a portrait of Sandor Clegane, apparently done posthumously. The text on the page described it as having been commissioned by Sansa Stark years after learning of the Hound’s death in Saltpans. Allegedly, Sansa and Arya Stark spent hours working with the artist to get the likeness as accurate as possible. The text said both Stark sisters felt indebted to the man who saved each of them multiple times – though specifics were not provided. It also said Sansa considered him a “true knight” during a time when there were so many false knights, though Sandor himself had rebuked the vows of knighthood for “moral reasons”. It explained that Sansa Stark was a cold woman by this point in her life; fair but difficult to please. She rarely spoke highly of anyone, it was said, including herself, but she frequently would show the portrait to those who visited her at Winterfell and describe it as a depiction of “the last honest man.”

It was all very interesting to Sansa, truly it was, but nothing was as interesting as the photo of the painting, commissioned about 800 years ago, depicting the very same man who was currently laid up in Harrenhall General, PCC Room 233.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sansa wavers a bit in her belief that Sandor is actually from the past. She can't believe it too readily, right? I think this is normal when people are confronted with data that defies everything they believe. There is doubt, then acceptance, then doubt, then acceptance, and so forth.


End file.
